Gunrunner by Graham Ison Page B

that right?’ Although we could have found it ourselves, Dave had cleverly permitted Roberts to escort us to the bar manager’s office, thus preventing him from telephoning Fred, alias Fernando, and fixing himself an alibi. The phone call that Dave had just prevented Goddard from answering was probably from Roberts. Then, he’d cunningly reversed what Roberts had said about having been in the club all Christmas Eve. ‘And you’d better make it the truth, Fred, because this is a murder investigation, and anyone lying to the police would be in serious shtook. Like copping a few years in the nick.’
    ‘Yeah, it’s right what he said, guv’nor. He definitely wasn’t here,’ agreed Goddard readily.
    ‘Good,’ said Dave. ‘That’s all. For the time being.’ Dave always liked to leave a threat hanging in the air, particularly when dealing with those he thought suspicious. And there were precious few people he didn’t regard as suspicious.
    We left Goddard to get on with his bar managing, and wondered what would happen when Roberts asked him about his interview with us. I guessed it would not be a happy exchange.
    ‘I’ll put money on our Fernando there having a bit of form,’ said Dave, as we made our way to the main door and back into the street. But Dave assumed that everyone had ‘a bit of form’ until the contrary was proved.
    ‘I don’t think that Roberts has an unblemished record, either, Dave,’ I said, and turned to Nicola. ‘What was it you asked him in Spanish, Nicola?’
    ‘I didn’t ask him anything, guv. I recited a couple of verses of a Spanish poem I’d learned when I was studying the language.’
    ‘What d’you make of Roberts claiming to have been at the club when Fernando says he wasn’t there, guv?’ asked Dave, when we’d finished laughing at Nicola’s subterfuge.
    ‘Clever question of yours, Dave,’ I said, always believing in giving credit where it was warranted. ‘We’ll wait a day or two and then interview Roberts again. He’ll probably say that he was with a woman.’
    ‘But if that was the case, why didn’t he say so?’ asked Dave.
    ‘Probably because he was screwing the arse off someone else’s wife and is worried that you’ll want to check his story,’ said Nicola, demonstrating once again that she was not the demure young lady that she appeared to be.
    ‘Well, I shall,’ I said. ‘In due course.’

FIVE
    O n Saturday morning, Dave and I went, once again, to the premises of Kerry Trucking at Chiswick.
    We found Bernard Bligh in his office overlooking the loading bay.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Bligh.’ I looked enquiringly at the other man in his office.
    ‘This is Carl Thorpe, fellow director and the company secretary,’ said Bligh.
    ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Mr Thorpe. I’m investigating Mrs Hammond’s murder.’
    ‘Yes, Bernard told me.’ Thorpe stepped across the office and shook hands. ‘Are you getting anywhere with finding out who killed her, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.
    ‘We’re following a few leads, Mr Thorpe,’ I said, ‘but these are early days.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Thorpe.
    ‘Perhaps one of you can answer a question for me, though.’
    ‘Fire away,’ said Bligh.
    ‘We’re interested in tracing the present whereabouts of Gary Dixon, the driver you sacked.’
    ‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ said Bligh, and turned to Thorpe. ‘You keep the staff records, Carl. Have you still got an address for him?’
    ‘It should be in the office somewhere.’ Thorpe glanced in my direction. ‘Bear with me a minute, Chief Inspector, and I’ll go next door and get my girl to have a look.’
    ‘D’you know who takes control of the business now that Mrs Hammond’s dead?’ I asked, while we were waiting for Thorpe to rummage through his records.
    ‘No, I don’t,’ said Bligh. ‘As matter of fact, Carl and I were discussing what was likely to happen when you arrived. I’ve got a thirty-five per cent holding in the